


If it Ain't Broke It, Break It

by Taurasi_Jumps



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taurasi_Jumps/pseuds/Taurasi_Jumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Glee Club reunions seen through the eyes of Brittany. Sometimes life changes and you don't even notice. Semi AU semi future fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If it Ain't Broke It, Break It

A/N: This is slightly AU in so far as Brittany didn't go to Mckinley, but everything and everyone else is the same, and Santana still fell in love with her best friend, it just wasn't Brittany and they broke up after graduation. You can imagine how it happened if you wish ^.^

The title is from a Meat Loaf song.

I don't own Glee, but any and all mistakes are mine.

* * *

A year after I graduated from Julliard and about three weeks after your graduation ceremony from NYU, the first envelope came. It was thick and heavy, that expensive textured paper that I love to run my fingers over or brush against the sensitive skin on my cheeks or dip a paintbrush into soft water colour paints and drag long strokes along seeing the ridges and smooth bubbles and darker lines as the watery paint soaks in.

Your name and our address (that still felt so weird to say. We had only moved in that week; we had both had intense first relationships, we needed to be sure before doing something like getting an apartment together) was written in that neat cursive that I hated trying to decipher and the rich black made the letters bolder staring at me from the white envelope. You walked up behind me, winding your arms around my waist before brushing the tips of your fingers along the underside of my arms.

_What's that Britt?_ Your words whispered along my neck, licking against my eardrum. I shrugged, lifting the envelope higher so that you could read it. You brushed your nose along the neck of my t shirt before kissing at my hairline. _Open it._

I pulled at the flap, I thought it should have pulled away neatly, that the gum should have pulled away in thin sticky strings, leaving no trace that it had once kept the envelope sealed. But it didn't, the flap tore in my fingers, and the sticky residue was slightly yellowed, marring the smooth lines.

I don't think you noticed.

But it made me feel uneasy.

Inside was more paper like the envelope, expensive and textured and white and covered in more of the rich black cursive letters. I sighed before passing the sheet of paper to you. _I hate reading cursive. It makes my eyes hurt._

You laughed softly before sliding your fingers to slot between my own. Even on the first day, we always fitted so well together. I could feel your lips moving and the soft, gentle puffs of air along my skin as you read the words.

_Five year high school reunion organised by the glee club._ You didn't sound happy, you were a cheerleader, head cheerleader for a little while, and you always talk fondly about performing and singing, so I didn't understand why you didn't sound happy. I turned to look at you, softly kissing at your cheek in question. _They never really liked me. I bullied most of them, I wasn't the only member that did, but I was the only member that didn't get a second chance. I'm not going._

I turned to argue, but all I could see was fear and sadness flickering in those dark, normally warm, eyes so instead and I kissed you softly, tugging the paper from between our fingers, throwing it over my shoulder as I lead you to the sofa giggling breathily.

* * *

We were sitting on our just bought new sofa, this one covered in rich, dark blue suede that would smooth and settle when I ran my hand downwards but then bristle and fight when I ran my hand upwards. (It was much nice material than our last one and we would later find out that it would give us much fewer friction burns too.) The room was peaceful, silent, my fingers playing with the ends of your hair, your eyes closed and your arms tight around my torso, occasionally pressing at my spin comfortingly.

We both jumped at the metallic clang and muted following thump of letters landing on the hardwood floor, and you laughed at our skittishness before pushing yourself upwards and walking towards the door. I heard you sigh before slumping back on top of me.

There was another heavy, textured, envelope with its rich cursive letters.

Another reunion, this time you laughed at the absurdity of having a reunion less than a year after the first one, and you threw it onto the coffee table (I had been on a cleaning spree that morning so the wood so smooth and polished we could have used it as a mirror and it slid much further than I thought it would have) before nuzzling your face into my neck and pressing your lips along my collarbone.

* * *

The next reunion letter laid on our floor for two weeks, while we were travelling through Italy and France on our honeymoon. We had to force the door open due to the build up of letters and magazines and junk post, and I remember your slim, tan fingers picking everything up off the floor, your other hand not leaving my own.

You must have opened the envelope and read what was inside. But all I remember is seeing the warm, orange evening sunshine glinting and reflecting off the silver band and the single rounded black diamond, and feeling the comforting heavy weight of my own silver band with a square dark sapphire.

I think for the first month after our marriage I would pull the band off a little every evening to squint at the engraved letters and initials; I still couldn't believe that you were mine and I was yours.

We didn't go to the reunion.

* * *

The next envelope was slightly smaller, and it was addressed to 'Mrs Lopez-Pierce' causing my heart to flutter and my mouth to quirk into a smile. I didn't even bother giving it to you before pulling out the sheet inside and placing them onto the recycling pile.

* * *

This time the envelope wouldn't fit through the letterbox, and I had to go to the main sorting office to sign for it. You were working, and given it didn't specify which Mrs Lopez-Pierce it wasn't technically a lie when I scrawled along the sheet and took the envelope from the teenager behind the counter.

The envelope was brown, still addressed in that rich, black ink, and on the back was that cardboard backing that stops important papers becoming bent in the post. I wanted to open it as soon as I felt the cool, smooth paper in my hands (I always was impatient, you said it was one of things you liked about me when we first met) but I managed to wait for the whole walk home and until the front door was safely closed behind me.

There was the usual invitation, still on the expensive, textured, beautiful paper, but this year it was accompanied by several glossy photographs. They showed a group of maybe twenty people who all looked about our age, sometimes smiling and posing, sometimes obviously taken unobtrusively by someone in the hall.

I recognised Quinn from your cheerleading pictures, and I could guess which one was Finn (I think I hated him a lot more than I should have hated someone I never met) but most of the faces were unknown and I spent hours tracing over the faces in each photograph. More hours spent looking at the decorations, the bright colours, different every year but always expertly co-ordinated and perfectly arranged, often used to frame the groups in the posed photographs.

I really wanted to go, and I left the photographs strewn over the kitchen worktop (the new worktop that you spent weeks pouring over specifications and colour schemes and textures and finishes and that I couldn't care less about so long as I could put a plate on it without it collapsing), somewhere that I was sure you would see them.

When I woke up the next morning, they were collected back in the envelope and was in the kitchen waste bin.

* * *

The next envelope was anticipated. I had been asking for a week, almost begging, to go. I didn't really understand your resistance anymore, and it was your ten year reuion.

I wanted to go.

And when the envelope, cream and thick and crisp, you picked it from the floor and sliced the top pen with a letter open, that glinted in the early morning sunlight like your ring had all those years ago.

You tugged at the paper, and calmly clicked your pen, fluidly filling out the RSVP, before turning to me, smiling gently and tucking it into the return envelope. You handed it to me to lick, I always liked the taste of the gum, it would make my tongue tingle and feel tacky and I loved it.

You kissed me on my forehead and it was decided.

We would be going.

* * *

The hall was decked out in silver and deep, royal purple. There were streamers that hung in loose curls from the ceiling that I could almost brush with my fingertips if I pushed onto my toes and stretched my arms high above my head.

Although every time I tried you would tug at my arms and tell me to watch where I was walking.

There was a long banner along one wall, which should have looked tacky and cheap and juvenile, but it matched so beautifully, and the gently swirling letters were so carefully positioned and proportioned that I couldn't help but trace my eyes over every stroke. It was an almost shiny silver, subtly glinting in the harsh fluorescent light, and pale lavender lettering outlined in the dark purple that matched the streamers and made them stand out.

There were long tables that lined three of the walls, some filled with so much food, I was sure that more than the Glee club would turn up (they didn't, but we still somehow got through all of that food), whilst others hand pictures in tasteful dark wood frames. The tables were covered in cloths that were a pale, dull silver (you scoffed and called it grey) with swirling dark purple and lavender patterns occasionally dotted with gold stars. I expected the table cloths to be that slick, thick paper kind that I would deliberately spill the last of my drink onto as a child so I could pull my finger through it and make pictures that would just sit on the top.

But this was thick, slightly scratchy cloth and if I pressed hard enough I could feel each individual stich.

Even the paper plates and cups were covered in gold stars and dark purple edging.

I met so many people that evening, mostly people whose names I already knew, but whose voices I had never heard or faces I had never seen.

And I heard so many stories about you that evening. They made you sound so different to the woman I knew and fell in love with.

Although, I don't remember many of them, as there would always be someone to fill my glass with rich, fruity wine or bubbling, bright champagne or sweet mixed drinks or bitter, burning spirits.

I had such a nice evening, like I hadn't had in such a long time.

* * *

The next envelope dropped onto the new mat I had bought (that you hated) and I felt my heart beat faster when I saw it and the first smile of the week break out along my face. I opened it, ripping the envelope so clumsily I left the edges jagged in such a way that it tugged at my heart for some reason, before I pulled the paper out and crumpled the envelope in my fist.

I filed out and returned the reply slip then booked the plane tickets and organised the hire car.

You didn't question when I said we were going again, you just nodded and kissed me on the forehead before walking out to work.

* * *

The first time I did it, I chose someone completely different from you, open and curvy and soft, but also someone completely the same as you, driven and independent and outspoken.

The hall was in soft creams and stunning gold this year. There was a large net suspended from each corner that hung so low Finn could almost touch it with his head. It was filled with cream and gold stars that would occasionally slip through, floating gently to the floor where they would soon be crumpled by quickly dancing feet.

The table cloths were simple, cream with strong, solid lines of gold at the edges and the plates were bold white china with a single gold star painted somewhere on them. The cups were gold, that I normally would think was too much, but everything else was so subtle that it wasn't gaudy but classy.

The tables were just as long and just as full as food as last year, but there were more pictures that were this time in light woods and painted woods (you always hated painted wood frames, and you pushed at the frames disdainfully) that blended so well with the rest.

The first time I did it, I chose someone completely different from you, open and curvy and soft, but also someone completely the same as you, driven and independent and outspoken.

Mercedes had just lost her place on her record label because she refused to starve herself in order to sell records and all her latest songs were about heartbreak and too soulful and too bluesy and too jazzy to sell in the charts.

She was sitting in one of the classrooms by herself with a bottle of expensive scotch. Even through the alcoholic haze and the tears, she was stunning.

She had bright, shinning brown eyes, that reflected the dimmed lights from the main hall next door, so warm and welcoming I'm sure I got lost in them for several seconds. Her mouth longed to smile wide even in sadness, and it changed her whole persona. Her body was full curves and warm, rich, brown skin darker than yours reminding me of the richest, purist, milk chocolate, that was smooth and unknown under my fingers when the alcohol gave me enough courage to run them down her arm.

She smiled at me, and it was so sad and almost bitter than it made my heart burn and something ache and pull in my stomach as I slid my fingers loosely between hers. It made me think of ying and yang and those fastidiously crafted chess pieces of ebony and ivory in your father's office and the keys on a piano.

It took me another five shots burning down my throat and settling warm and heavy in my stomach to be brave enough to gently brush our lips together. They were fuller and softer than yours, but soon her tongue was brushing shyly into my mouth and I could feel skin under my fingers were clothes were and I wasn't think of you anymore.

She fell apart much slower than I thought she would, gripping at the table she was still sat upon and at her breasts that spilled majestically from the dishevelled, open powder blue shirt and white lacy cups, and she looked even more stunning, even in the cold, empty classroom that just made her shine more and under the sweat that peppered her skin that just made it shimmer.

She kissed me and thanked me, before just holding my hands and looking at my face as her breathing evened out and her heart beat slowed to normal. Her eyes were brown and deep and open and…something I hadn't seen in so long.

She kissed me again, softly, carefully, like I was made of something precious, like _I_ was precious.

But soon the spell in the room was broken and we neatened our clothing and rearranged the room to how we found it. She stayed there with the remainder of the bottle for company, and I returned to the main hall, feeling powerful; more powerful than I had in a long time.

We had been together for ten years Santana.

* * *

The next reunion looked like it had some kind of underwater theme. Everything was blue or green or white and it was oppressive with long, thick lengths of material that brushed at my shoulders and itched at my face. The table cloths were dark blue black with no added decoration and the plates and cups and plastic cutlery were black (I didn't even know you could _get_ black cutlery) but everyone else praised the 'edgy' feel (I think you laughed at this muttering that none of them would know edgy if it bit them on the face) and ran the fingers down the hanging strips in awe, confusion.

I saw Mercedes across the room and smiled, but she couldn't quite meet my eyes, and I'm sure that her cheeks and neck darkened.

It was hard to see, but I noticed it, so used to looking for blushes under skin tones that wouldn't easily give up the truth.

I used to make you blush like that.

I don't think anyone else noticed that Mercedes and I didn't talk much, and never without at least three other people as buffers, but then again, no one noticed that we spent almost an hour together last year.

* * *

At the fifteen year reunion, the hall was covered in gold and silver and red and white. There were ones and fives hanging from the ceiling at different lengths that twirled sometimes in breezes caused by people dancing below them. In each corner was a bright red balloon with white 'WMHS Glee Club' scrawled across it and long silver and gold strings that trailed to the floor in neat curls. The table cloths were a matching bright red, edged in white letters and numbers marching along the bottom in a neat line. The plates were gold paper (were they always paper? Or had I just not noticed before) and someone had written fifteen on each one, with matching silver cups with 'Glee Club' written on them.

It was too much, and just right all at the same time.

I realised that Quinn had noticed Mercedes and I those years ago and how we had avoided each other since, and she found every possibly opportunity to brush against my arm or loosely tangle our fingers together, until my skin was humming and hot and sensitive, and I gripped at Quinn's fingers desperately, pulling her towards the same room Mercedes had been sat in.

Her marriage was one of convenience and was falling apart, crumbling like a sandcastle between her fingers, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

She was bitter and mean and jealous.

She was sad and lonely and hurt.

She was breath taking and classic and feminine.

Her kisses were desperate and wet from tears, her tongue was forceful and the press of her fingers against my hips was bruising.

It made me feel alive, wanted.

I didn't even manage to get her skirt off before she was pressed against me, instead the soft fabric was bunched at her waist and one of my hands was pushed up to squeeze at her breast. Our legs clasped between legs and hips rocking erratically against one another.

We didn't fit like you and I but it was satisfying, and the power I felt last time rushed forwards along with my release, especially when we both walked back into the hall, arms and hips and shoulders bumping as we did so, while no one even turned as the door clicked shut behind us.

* * *

We'd been married for ten years when we drove towards your seventeen year reunion.

You had stopped complaining that they were held annually at some point, I'm not really sure when. You had started talking to more of your old Glee club members too, but I never really paid much attention to you when we were there.

The room was shimmering with different shades of white and occasional splashes of pink; there was another baby added to the so-called Glee family (although, from everyone treated everyone else, I'm not sure it was a family for everyone) and Rachel had let Sugar, as the new mother, help her decorate.

I could tell.

There were swinging, swirling shapes that if I squinted looked like the inside of a wave, next to delicate, hanging bulbs that looked like tear drops, next to plain, textured lengths, next to childish shapes of butterflies and rattles and rainbows and clouds. Nothing matched, except the colour scheme, but it wasn't seamlessly mixed as previous years.

The table cloths were different too. They weren't elegant and sharp and crisp, instead hanging uneven with harsh triangular points directed downwards, and their pink colour was lurid, the cream patterns only emphasising it, not calming it.

Everything else was pink too, and it was too much, far too much, making my head pound and my eyes itch and the room spin. I needed to get away, so I made my excuses to you and who we were standing with and walked outside, going subconsciously towards the football field and the bleachers.

As I reached them, I saw I wasn't the first one there. Sam. He was pretty, with plump pink lips, and blonde hair he was constantly shaking to remove from blue eyes, that sometimes seemed darker.

He hadn't been there for the last four reunions, off with his girlfriend, singing and volunteering and picking up jobs whenever and wherever they could. Only now she was his ex-girlfriend who married a lawyer and laughed pityingly at Sam when he had planned their next trip.

He tried to laugh it off as he told me, but I could see the pain in his eyes, and I quickly changed the subject to something neutral. He was easy to talk to, and as I settled down next to him his subtle cologne made the hairs along the back of my neck stand. I hadn't been attracted to a man in a very long time and the newness of everything made my veins thump with excitement.

His skin was rougher, the hairs coarser and thicker along his arms, making my skin tingle pleasantly, his kisses were desperate and sloppy. I ran my fingertips along his abs, it was different from when I would do the same to you, but the slightly more prominent definition and rougher skin with light patches of skin made my breath hitch.

I think he was trying to make the moment fun and pleasurable, but he was so drunk that he could barely undo his buckle and it was fast and rough. His hands were less practised as they grabbed and twisted at my chest to the point where it almost hurt. I didn't even come, and when he gripped me close to his heaving chest for a few minutes after he had finished, his muscles didn't make me feel safe like the flexing of yours did.

I didn't feel powerful that time, I felt used and dirty, and I almost ran back to you, feigning illness and begging to go back to the hotel.

With you.

My wife.

With you.

* * *

I didn't go the next year, saying that I was too busy (you didn't ask with what, and I didn't have an answer) that it didn't matter too much as it was your reunion anyway.

I expected you to shrug and say you wouldn't go either (did you not think it was odd that I was busy with nothing), but you filled out the RSVP slip and booked the plane tickets and hire car on your laptop.

You went without me.

I made sure there were plenty of pictures taken, and when I picked them up from the drugstore a week later, I laid them out on the dining room table that we never used and studied each one.

I traced my finger over the smiling faces and absorbed every different pose, trying to work out which ones were faked or forced and which were there despite of the camera.

In every one of you, you looked so happy, so much more beautiful than those standing around you. You even made the rich brown and blue decorations and luxurious looking table cloths seem dull, cheap, mismatched.

You looked so happy.

I wished I had gone.

* * *

I found out at the next reunion that I had been less discrete than I thought.

There were different sized balls of soft coral hanging from long stems of dark green evenly spaced and they had small LED spots at the end of each that shifted from white to yellow to red continually, slowly.

There was no table cloth this year, instead there were those wicker placemats under each dish and short lengths of coral paper napkins placed in piles along the length.

It was quite beautiful.

It was while I was still mesmerised by the shifting LEDs when Tina sauntered over to me, I think you were talking to Rachel, or maybe it was Mike's wife or Mercedes.

I never really paid attention to you when we were there.

Tina smirked at me and reached out to touch my shoulder before walking her fingers down my arm, looking at me through her lashes. She has beautiful eyes, a pale soft brown that gladly reflected everything around her. Her lips were plump and soft and shiny and her breath was hot against my ear as she whispered.

"So, I've always wondered what sleeping with a woman is like. And I figured that someone as, expert, as you would be perfect." She had an easy smile that always reached her eyes and her skin glowed against my pale skin, thrumming with that sense of power that I had before Sam.

I hesitated, I still couldn't quite shake the feeling of being used with Sam, and her want to sleep with a woman, any woman not specifically me, was making me feel uneasy. She bit her lip in anticipation before pressing her body closer to my own, as if she knew I was close to saying no. I could feel her heart beat, steady and speeding up as she teased at the tips of my fingers, and the softness of her breasts; the power surged through my body smothering any hesitancy as I nodded and took her hand.

She was soft and strong and the muscles flexed underneath my fingers as she pulled me close. Her skin smelt like incense, cinnamon, woody, earthy but every time she moved her head I could smell citrus. Her kisses were hesitant at first, but when I ran my fingers through her smooth, dark hair they became firmer, confident and were closely followed by her tongue brushing along my lips. She learnt quickly and was the epitome of a tease, kissing along my neck and following my jaw.

The power roared beneath my skin and pulled the very tips of my fingers and toes. I hardly noticed that she had worked a hand into my shirt and was gripping at my breasts just hard enough to make me press our hips together.

I pulled her mouth away from where it was sucking just below my ear. Her lips were darkened and swollen and so very sexy, eyes swirling and wide as her breath hit against my chin in short, forceful pants. It made my skin turn to goose flesh, spreading down my neck, and I pulled her lips back to mine insistantly.

We explored and stretched and pinched and pulled and caressed at each, falling apart almost simultaneously, and she held my head close to hers as our breath mixed between us like warm, silk scarves in a box.

I don't know how long we stood like that, hands still trapped in between legs, foreheads, slightly sweaty and hot, pressed together, but at the sound of loud male laughter we pulled apart like we were bitten, tugging frantically at our clothes and stroking at each other's hair to neaten it and wiping away the smudged, ruined make up.

Puck came walking towards us, his smirk knowing and lustful and hateful at the same time; but I didn't care.

All I could feel was the power. A feeling that was quickly waning and morphing into one of being used.

I desperately clung to that feeling of power like it was a life raft, like it was an excuse, like it was a reason.

* * *

The wives and husbands and boyfriends and girlfriends and children changed each year at these reunions that you had started to look forward to.

I didn't notice when you started to look forward to them more than me.

I didn't notice when I stopped wanting to go either.

This year I heard the whispers.

(I didn't hear the conversations though, I'm not even sure who I talked to.)

I saw the looks.

(I didn't see anything else, I don't even know what the predominant colour was that year, but it must have been something special, it was after all your twentieth reunion.)

And no one talked to me without you.

I don't think you noticed.

I hope you noticed.

I'm glad you didn't notice.

* * *

It had been a busy year before the envelope even left Rachel's desk.

We had moved to a bigger apartment, it wasn't the first time we had moved since we got our first apartment, but this was the biggest and most luxuriant one we had moved into. You were so proud when we moved in, spending hours with furniture catalogues and paint samples and colour schemes and carpet or tile or linoleum or floorboard samples before we moved in, then spent weeks making sure every room was to your liking.

You would start in one room, with a hand drawn plan gripped in your hand just looking at the room. Then everything would be covered in old, thick cotton sheets as you stripped or painted or wallpapered and you would pull off the sheets with a flourish when you finished. Then you would move around the big pieces of furniture in accordance to your plan, telling me exactly where to put things, down to the closest millimetre. Then would come accessories and expensive trinkets and posed pictures of our lives.

Then you would stand in the middle of the room with your hands on your hips and your head cocked at an angle as you constantly picked and nudged and shuffled until everything was precisely how you wanted it.

I didn't really know what you found so special about it or why the rooms couldn't just form organically or why every box had to be unpacked in a certain order.

I just nodded in agreement and lifted or dropped when you told me to.

Not only had we moved, but we'd been together for twenty years, and your family and my family spent a week with us. We had presents (a beautiful tin photo frame with our names and wedding date engraved and a tin charm with the other's initials for the charm bracelets we never wear anymore) and a quiet celebration; a small, family meal at some stuffy, overly priced restaurant that was too quiet and the food in tiny portions, more for look than to quench an appetite.

It was also a week where I felt like a twenty year old again.

With this beautiful woman's hands, your hands, in my own, occasionally with your thumb brushing against my knuckles, our fingers slotted so easily together.

And your soft lips against my cheek, at first just routine, until they began to linger and press harder at my skin.

And your naked, warm, stunningly familiar body pressed and moving against mine, mouth opened and slack, pants high, breathless at the end of the week, when we were alone once again.

And the most beautiful, enchanting image when you reached your release and you allowed yourself to be open and uninhibited with me once again as you came.

I felt that power again.

For a little while, until everything returned to how it was before.

Walking back into that hall for the next reunion, I could feel that power dangling, tantalisingly, just out of reach, like the streamers that hung from the ceiling the first time we came here.

This time there were no streamers, but intricate, delicate, breath taking Chinese lanterns in red and white and gold and black that appeared to float above our heads and made shadows dance light heartedly around the room.

There were whispers too, slicing through the air cleanly like a knife through warm butter, and stinging my skin like salt in a wound. Whispers that would mostly stop when we approached the table (covered in a thin, almost shear gold cloth that sparkled under the lanterns) or would suddenly become louder talking about frivolous matters.

But this year they weren't all about. (well, us I suppose. They must have talked about you too, sometimes I wondered if you heard any of them.)

This year the whispers were also about Finn, who had left Rachel less than a month before with absolutely no warning, and had walked into the hall with his arm around his new girlfriend, younger and slimmer and more superficial than Rachel. I wasn't sure whether it was cruelty or ignorance that made Finn bring her, but when Rachel burst into the classroom I was sitting in, I didn't care the reason, I just pulled her towards me.

Her heart was breaking, whilst mine had been broken for years.

I held her tightly for several minutes, absorbing her shuddering sobs, trying to keep her upright, occasionally rubbing circles into her back and pressing a kiss into her hair.

That beautiful, flowing dark hair that was soft and smooth and silky underneath my lips and between my fingers when I played with the ends that brushed at my hands as she cried.

I started to move the kisses that I placed in her hair down along her hairline and along her jaw, strong and confident and feminine, before I cupped her face, warm and wet from tears and hurt, in my palms and brushed my lips against her own. They were slightly cracked and I could taste blood under my tongue where she had bitten them so firmly to try and stop the tears.

Soon all of the white buttons (that were oddly in the shape of cats heads) that ran like paving stones down the front of her black dress were unbuttoned, the skirt bunched at her waist, and her panties somewhere behind me on the floor.

Rachel was hot and sticky and new, and the desperate grip on my shoulders and back spurned me on, that power being pulled from the air into my body as if I were a sponge.

Her pants and groans were much louder than you, echoing slightly around the room, and she lay back much more trustingly, completely exposed under my touch; enrapturing in her vulnerability. She reached her release so quickly, it almost surprised me and I didn't want to stop yet, so I kept my fingers moving, moving, moving, encouraging the rhythm of her hips to be found again and suddenly to simply touch her with one hand was not enough.

I pressed my mouth against her exposed collar bone, sucking softly, just enough to feel the skin warm, and licked along the edge of her bra, feeling the rough lace over gloriously smooth skin making my tongue tingle, before kneeling on the floor, cold flooding through my body deliciously from my knees contrasting with Rachel's surrounding heat, and almost roughly pulling her thighs apart as I smirked up at her.

I lowered my head to taste to her, slowly, letting every new sensation spread through my body and for several glorious seconds all I could hear were her pants, softer now and interspersed with occasional, more muted moans. Then, I heard the door click open, like a single crack of thunder in my ears, and felt the slight breeze lift at the ends of my hair that was trailed down my back, followed by the smooth, soft thighs surrounding my head prickle with goose flesh, but I didn't have time to move before the sound of shattering glass on concrete boomed in the room.

Like thunder increasing during the building of a storm.

I turned to find you there, as beautiful as the first day I saw you in that coffee shop in New York, your face shifting from angry to heartbroken to shocked to scared and back again as you stared wide-eyed and frozen in the doorway.

I thought that when you finally, _finally,_ caught me, I would feel vindicated.

I thought I would feel like you finally noticed me, as a separate entity, not just an extension of you, the dutiful wife.

I thought I would feel like we were finally even.

That every time you rang me to change or, more often to cancel, our plans with less than half an hours warning would be erased.

That every time you came home well into the night, smelling of paper and ink but mostly the musk of your office that clung to your suits and hair, would be forgotten.

That every time you announced (you gave up asking a long time ago) that I should get your dry cleaning or coffee would be wiped clean.

That every brushed off kiss and ignored intimacy and faked orgasm (of which I'm sure there were many. Right Santana?) would be cancelled out.

I thought I would feel pleased that I had finally gotten your attention.

Attention that I hadn't felt directed at me for so very long.

But all I felt was a pain blossoming in my chest and tears stinging in my eyes and sobs building in my throat.

You just looked so broken Santana.

Like you actually cared about me and about us.

All I had wanted was my loving, attentive, affectionate wife back.

The wife who thought about what I wanted too; the wife who I felt I was in a partnership with, not the wife who treated me like her fucking assistant, minus the professional or common courtesy.

But you just looked so broken Santana.

And I felt like the worst person in the world.

You had been slowly eroding our marriage, like waves lapping gently but insistently against a chalk cliff.

But I had shattered it with one heavy blow.

I just wanted my wife back.

But you just looked so broken Santana.

* * *

A/N: I hope this had the effect I was going for, if you have any questions, go for it.


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